


Cuddlebug

by meat



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Metamorphers AU, Mpreg, commission, please read the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meat/pseuds/meat
Summary: Cyclonus is stubborn, for as long as he possibly can be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> http://nakklepiggy.tumblr.com/tagged/metamorphers/chrono
> 
> This was a commission for Nakki! Explanation of um, furry bits can found at that link.

It would be a mistake to think of Cyclonus as weak. The situation was irrelevant, as was his physical condition within that situation- there was still a fight left in him no matter how bleak things looked. The spirit of a warrior carried him through his everyday life, even when things had shifted from a constant struggle for his life to a more domestic kind of monotony. Even with that said, it was important to remember that pain and weakness were two very different things.

The full-body aching that had overtaken him was completely new. It was incomparable to the ache of sickness, or even that of a physical injury. It went deeper than bone, deeper than blood. The source of his aching came from nothing in his own body at all, but rather from the small bodies he was carrying within himself. It was a feeling incomparable to anything, because whenever he felt pain this great, it didn’t typically make him _happy_. The past few months had been full of such surprises, and it was almost regretful that it eventually come to an end.

Cyclonus had holed himself up in what Tailgate lovingly referred to as a ‘blanket fort’. Heating pads, hot water bottles, and all other sorts of remedies laid discarded on the ground next to him- again, Tailgate became relevant, because he had been the one to suggest every one of them. Cyclonus was not weak, and he did not bow to pain, even if that meant sweating it out underneath a comforter while his body screamed in agony. He’d even turned away herbal and otherwise holistic solutions, honestly preferring his solace over any painkiller. It seemed that Tailgate had finally given in and let him do as he wanted, but then, Cyclonus’ mind was not completely intact behind the harsh fog of pain.

Their room was still and quiet around him. The faint noise of the ship’s pipes and the sound of his own breathing were all that filled the space underneath the covers, and the scratchiness of his factory-made blanket was one of the few sensations that really reached him. Cyclonus grit his teeth. The beginnings of a migraine had started to make themselves known, but the act of grinding his teeth had only exacerbated it. Cyclonus shifted under the covers, not willing to give in and reach for one of the remedies Tailgate had left so tauntingly close to him. He was not weak for feeling pain, but he couldn’t help feeling weak for wanting help. It wasn’t a feeling that he could easily control.

Occupying his thoughts with hypothetical images of his offspring didn’t help. For every good image he could muster of fluffy white Tailgate clones running about and playing, he felt his mind invaded by thoughts of children that were more like him. It wasn’t...an awful thought, no. He had wanted for most of his life to pass on his legacy in some form. It had always loomed over his head that that legacy would need protection. It would need nurturing, and care, and a kind of gentleness that Cyclonus didn’t see himself capable of giving. The strain of carrying, as he felt now, would have incapacitated him and made him an easier target on the field of war. It wasn’t that he hadn’t _wanted_ children- it was that he could never trust his past partner not to get them (and, therefore, himself) killed while he carried them.

It might have been his physical similarities to Galvatron that kept his ideas of their children limited to Tailgate. It was depressingly optimistic to think of their kits with horns too nubby to ever use in a fight, claws too short and rounded to ever have use in combat. Fur that was thick and soft rather than short and growing in bedraggled patches alongside ancient scars. It was optimistic as best, delusional at worst.

Cyclonus knew that the best thing he could do for them, inevitably, was not to teach them to shy away from a fight. Realistically, he would have to teach them self defense, just as any parent would for their child. Safety precautions such as that were just a part of life; the least that Cyclonus could do was pray they’d never have to use them. Besides, he had Tailgate with him, should he ever need help.

Apparently, Tailgate chose that very moment to start.

“Hey, sorry. I got, uh…”

Tailgate trailed off as soon as Cyclonus made eye contact with him. Tailgate had arrived with an oversized jug- not a bottle, a veritable jug the size of Tailgate’s head- of water carefully held in his arms. It wasn’t so large to Cyclonus, but still enough to confuse him a bit. He’d been drinking, he’d been drinking _all day_ , he- oh. No, he hadn’t.

“You doing ok?”

Cyclonus pursed his lips at the still-full, condensation-heavy water bottle that sat on his bedside table. Tailgate had said that drinking might help him with the pain, and he was right. Being hydrated was always the #1 go-to when you felt like crap. Cyclonus must have been distracted while Tailgate was away. But then, that begged the question…

“How long have you been gone?”

“Oh, um,” Tailgate set the jug down on the table. He didn’t say anything about the water bottle, but the look in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. “About an hour. You asked to be alone, but...I thought you’d want to stay hydrated. It’ll help.”

Cyclonus’ body chose that very moment to convulse in pain. It felt like being kicked from the inside, and not in the adorable, parenthood way; no, it felt like his uterus had been curbstomped from the inside with an iron boot.

“Thank you, Tailgate.”

The smaller of the two stood there for a moment, shuffling in place. Neither of them made eye contact.

“Are you going to-”

“When I feel like it.”

More shuffling. Some nervous neck-rubbing. No eye contact. Cyclonus knew that he had struck a chord with his snappy answer, and Tailgate knew that he knew.

“Can I lay down with you?”

This time, Cyclonus’ snappy response took on a very different tone:

“Of course.”

Tailgate wasted no time. He was a blur of tail-swooshing and fuzz as he crawled into bed with Cyclonus, making himself at home there in moments. His face was only slightly cooler than the rest of his body, which was to say that Tailgate offered a very palpable and very, very appreciated warmth. Cyclonus laid still. His partner was snuggled up against the crook of his back, with small, soft arms snaked around to his front.

Using some creative description within his head, Cyclonus likened it to spooning with an electric Snuggie. One of Tailgate’s hands hovered near Cyclonus’ swollen abdomen. Before he could ask- because Cyclonus _knew_ he would ask- he answered for Tailgate. Cyclonus pressed his body into Tailgate’s hands, still leaving them laid together but now with Tailgate’s hands practically cupping their kits.

“We can go back to Ratchet if you’re in pain. You aren’t bothering him.”

“I know that,” Cyclonus grit his teeth. Tailgate rubbing helped slightly, but at the same time, it seemed to be helping their kits ‘awaken’. “I would rather handle this myself.”

Tailgate kept rubbing. His other arm was still curled over his partner’s shoulder, in a sort of awkward half-embrace he could only barely manage with the length of his arms. It did the job well enough. There was still an air of awkwardness around them from Cyclonus’ unwillingness to relax, but they could both make do.

“Have you thought of names? I mean, of course I have, but I want to hear what you came up with.”

Cyclonus parted his lips to say something about the genuine excitement in Tailgate’s voice, but he let it drop. It wasn’t worth noting, or at least, the conversation that would result from its noting was not one worth having.

“Cirrus. If they are a flier, like myself. I doubt they will be, of course.”

“Oh, right it’s...it’s recessive, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

There was more pause between them, punctuated with breathing and the sound of fur being rubbed. Cyclonus let the muscles straining his neck relax a bit.

“I think that however they end up, their names’ll have to fit them. You know? ‘What’s in a name’, and all that.”

“I’m not sure if I understand.”

“You know- you don’t look like a Tailgate, and I don’t look like a Cyclonus. Rodimus doesn’t look like a Drift, and-”

“Megatron certainly doesn’t look like a First Aid.”

They both enjoyed a shared laugh, then. “And I’ll make sure that Cirrus doesn’t look like a…?”

“Bumper.”

“I’m not quite sure if _anyone_ can look like a Bumper.”

Tailgate nearly shook himself off of the bed laughing. The joke itself hadn’t been that funny, not by a long shot. Still, it took very little effort to encourage Cyclonus to joke more. Eventually, Cyclonus would have to stop relying on home remedies and patience to handle his condition, and he knew that. They both knew that. Tailgate steadied himself and snuggled closer to his partner, looking for the grin that would tell him he was successful.

Apparently, he was.

“I’m glad we got to do this together.”

“I am glad that you’re by my side in this.”

Tailgate pressed a warm, whiskery kiss to the back of Cyclonus’ neck. He relished in the way that his partner squirmed just slightly, and the way that his chest hitched in the slightest little chortle. Eventually, they’d need a real doctor. But for now, laughter was a pretty damn decent medicine.


End file.
